They made their way over the rutted ground and up the steps, then Yvette knocked at the door, which was opened almost at once. The man in front of them was also wearing a yellow jacket, although his was over a pair of brown corduroy trousers and a grey-striped shirt. He was solidly built, with a creased face and brown eyes. Although he could only have been in his mid-forties, his hair was a thick silver-grey.
‘Paul Kerrigan?’
‘That’s me.’
Yvette held up her ID. ‘I’m DC Yvette Long,’ she said. ‘We spoke on the phone. And this is DCI Malcolm Karlsson.’
Karlsson looked into the man’s soft brown eyes and felt a tremor of anticipation. He nodded at him.
‘You’d better come in.’
They entered the Portakabin, which smelt of wood and coffee. There was a desk in there, a trestle table and several chairs. Karlsson sat to one side and let Yvette ask the questions. He already knew that they had reached a watershed: he could feel the inquiry shifting under their feet, turning into something altogether different and unexpected.
‘We were given your name by Michael Reader.’
‘Yes.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘He said you rented thirty-seven A Shawcross Road from him and had done for almost ten years.’
Kerrigan’s eyes flickered. Karlsson looked at him closely.
‘That’s right. Since June 2001.’ He looked down at his large, calloused hands.
‘The reason we’re asking you is because we want to trace the last movements of Ruth Lennox, who was murdered twelve days ago. A taxi driver delivered her to that address on the day she died.’
‘Yes,’ he said again. He seemed passive and defenceless. He was simply waiting for the truth to emerge, lie in front of the three of them.
‘Were you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘You knew Ruth Lennox?’
There was a silence in the room. Karlsson listened to the sounds coming from the building site: the roar of engines and the shouts of the men.
‘Yes,’ said Paul Kerrigan, very softly. They could hear the sound he made when he swallowed. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come before. I should have done. But I didn’t see the point. She was dead. It was finished. I thought I could stop the hurt spreading.’
‘Were you having a relationship?’
He glanced from Yvette to Karlsson, then put both hands on the table in front of him. ‘I have a wife,’ he said. ‘I have two sons who are proud of me.’
‘You understand this is a murder inquiry,’ said Yvette. Her eyes were bright.
‘Yes, we were having a relationship.’ He blinked, folded his hands together. ‘I find it hard to say that out loud.’
‘And you saw her on the day she was killed?’
‘Yes.’
Karlsson spoke at last. ‘I think perhaps you’d better tell us the whole story.’
Paul nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I …’ He stopped.
‘What?’
‘I don’t want anyone to know.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know how to do this.’
‘Perhaps you can just tell us in chronological order what happened. Begin at the beginning.’
He stared out of the window, as if he couldn’t start while looking at them. ‘I met Ruth ten years ago. We live quite near each other. We met at fundraising events for the mothers and toddlers.’ He smiled. ‘She was selling falafels and I was helping with the lottery tickets on the next-door stall. We got on. She was very easy to get on with – everyone liked her. She was kind and practical and made you feel everything was going to be all right. I didn’t know that at the time, of course. I just thought she was nice. You probably think that nice isn’t a very romantic word. It wasn’t that kind of affair.’ He made a visible effort and went on with the story: ‘We met after, for coffee. It just felt natural.’
‘Are you saying,’ interrupted Yvette, ‘that you and Ruth Lennox were lovers for ten years?’
‘Yes. We got the flat after a few months. We chose that area because it wasn’t somewhere we’d bump into anyone we knew. We never went to each other’s houses. We met on Wednesday afternoons.’
Yvette leaned forward. ‘You’re saying that every Wednesday afternoon, for ten years, you and Ruth Lennox met at this flat?’
‘Except when we were on holiday. Sometimes we couldn’t make it.’
‘And no one knew?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact my partner knows. I mean, my work partner. At least, he knows that every Wednesday I’m not available. He turns a blind eye. He probably thinks it’s funny –’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Nobody else knew anything. We were careful. Once or twice we’d see each other on the streets near our homes and we’d ignore each other. Not even a smile. Nothing. We never phoned each other or sent each other messages.’
‘What if one of you had to cancel?’
‘We’d tell each other the week before, if we could. If one of us went to the flat and the other hadn’t turned up after fifteen minutes, we’d know something had happened.’
‘That all sounds very neat,’ Yvette said. ‘A bit cold-blooded.’
He unplaited his hands. ‘I don’t expect you to understand, but I love my wife and Ruth loved her husband. We wouldn’t have hurt them for the world. Or our kids. This was separate. Nobody would be affected. We never even talked about our families when we were together.’ He turned back to the window. ‘I can’t believe I’ll never see her again,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe I won’t go to the door and open it and she’ll be standing there with her smiling face. I dream about her, and when I wake I feel so calm, and then I remember.’
‘We need you to tell us about that last Wednesday,’ said Yvette.
‘It was the same as always. She came about half past twelve. I was already there. I always get there before her. I’d bought some bread and cheese for lunch and some flowers, which I’d put in a vase she’d bought the year before, and I’d put the heating on because although it was a warm day the flat felt a bit chilly.’
‘Go on.’
‘So.’ He seemed to find it hard to speak now. ‘She came and – do you need to know everything?’
‘Just the bare facts for now. You had sex, I take it.’ Yvette sounded harsh, even to herself.
‘We made love. Yes. Then we had a bath together before we ate the food. Then she left and I locked up and left about half an hour after her.’
‘What time would this be?’
‘She left at about three, maybe a touch earlier, ten to three or something. Like she always did. So I left at three thirty or a quarter to four.’
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘I don’t think so. We never met the other people in the building.’
‘Do you know where she was going?’
‘She always went home straight away.’
‘And you?’
‘Sometimes I went back to work. That day I went home.’
‘Was your wife there?’
‘No. She arrived at about six, I think.’
‘So you saw no one between leaving Shawcross Street and your wife arriving home two hours or so later?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘When did you hear about Ruth Lennox’s death?’ asked Karlsson.
‘It was in the papers the next day. Elaine – my wife – showed me. Her photo was there, and she was smiling. At first I had this stupid idea that it was about us – that someone had discovered and put it in the papers. I couldn’t speak. She said: “Isn’t this terrible? Did we ever meet her?”’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I don’t know. Elaine said, “Doesn’t she have a nice face? Poor children.” Things like that. I don’t know what I said. It’s all a blur now. I don’t know how I got through the evening. The boys were there and there was a general noise and bustle and they had their homework, and Elaine made a meal. Shepherd’s pie. And I put it in my mouth and swallowed it. And I had a shower and just stood there for ages and nothing seemed real.’